


Crack In The Fourth Wall

by iriswallpaper



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Crack, Gratuitous Swearing, John is Not Amused, John's ambiguous sexuality, John's drinking, John's family or lack thereof, M/M, Sherlock's Hair, Sherlock's ambiguous sexuality, because I'm making fun of myself too, please don't take offense if you write fanfic, poking good natured fun at fanfiction, unnecessary amounts of taking our Lord and Savior's name in vain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4824359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriswallpaper/pseuds/iriswallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's sick of making tea. All he wants is a glass of water. Or fizzy drink. Or homemade lemonade. Is that too much to ask?</p><p>John becomes aware of fanfic tropes while bitching about making tea. He and Sherlock discuss various tropes, and various things from BBC Sherlock, while they discuss aspects of their lives.</p><p>Total crack. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it. Please don't take offense if you write fanfic because I'm poking fun of my own fics here, not yours.</p><p>inspired by fanart by tumblr.asddsdf.com:  https://38.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m5pnv3IZZF1qkona7o1_1280.gif<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tea

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to DulcimerGecko, SincerelyChaos and MissDavis for beta-ing this work and for your excellent feedback.

John stood glaring into a kitchen cabinet filled with a jumble of tea cups and mugs. “Jesus Christ!”

“John?” Sherlock’s voice carried through the open pocket doors from where he sat reading in his leather chair.

“I don’t want tea!” John’s voice bordered on anguish.

“Then don’t have tea.”

“But fic authors always write me making tea! Tea at breakfast, tea after cases, tea in the afternoon. I’m So. Fucking. Sick. Of tea. Can’t I have a glass of water sometimes? Or a fizzy drink once in awhile. How about homemade lemonade. I think there’s a lemon in the fridge.” He shook his head. “And what’s their deal with putting a period after every word? Why?”

Sherlock rose and crossed to the kitchen. He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. “What are you on about? What in the world is a ‘fic author’?’”

John glanced side-eyed at Sherlock and struggled to contain his anger. “Fic author! You know, the people who write stories about us and post them on the Internet. Fanfiction.”

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. “People write stories about us on the Internet? I’m boffin Sherlock Holmes! How did I not know about that?”

“Because for a genius, you can be spectacularly ignorant.” John still stood with one hand holding the cabinet door open.

“But anyway, if you want a glass of water or a fizzy drink, by all means have one. We are out of fizzy drinks though. You’ll have to stop at the shops next time you’re out and get some.”

John spun on his flatmate. “And another thing! Why do these people always write ME going to Tesco? We’re both adults, you’re capable of taking care of your own basic needs. You can get your own groceries!”

Sherlock raised his hands, palms out, in a gesture meant to calm his over-excited flatmate. “Fine. I’ll get groceries the next time I’m out. I am perfectly capable of the task.”

“And why, for the love of Christ, do these writers always write me going to Tesco? It’s so boring to go grocery shopping at the same place over and over. All of these wonderful markets in London, and I’m forever sentenced to shop at only one place!

Sherlock dropped his hands and burst out laughing. “Are you going to stand at the cabinet all day, or are you going to make tea?”

“And why am I the only one in this flat who ever makes tea? You’re capable of it, too! You even made tea for Moriarity! But the general consensus on a fan website called ‘Archive Of Our Own’ has me making tea for you over and over and over.”

“John, calm down. If you want tea, I’ll make it for you. Just move out of my way.”

“BUT I DON’T WANT TEA!”

Sherlock shook his head, struggling to not laugh again. “Then I’ll get you a glass of water. Or milk. How about a nice glass of milk?”

“You can’t get me a glass of milk, because 221B Baker Street exists in some odd tear in the space/time continuum where milk magically disappears as soon as it’s brought through the door. The ficwriters write us out of milk. Every time. Every story. Our refrigerator is perpetually milkless.”

Sherlock couldn’t contain his laughter any longer. He laughed so hard, and so long, he had to bend over to catch his breath. When he was at last able to straighten up, it was to a John who had gone from red-faced anger to purple-faced rage. “And why do these people write me so tetchy? Half of the time I’m a red-raced and raging like a lunatic.”

“Because half of the time you are,” Sherlock muttered under his breath as he went back to his chair and flopped down gracelessly then picked up his laptop from the side table.

“I did not flop down gracelessly! I seated myself appropriately.”

John looked confused. “Now what are you on about?”

“This author just said I ‘flopped down gracelessly’ into my chair. I did nothing of the sort.”

John looked confused. “So you can sense it now, too? What the author is having us do?”

“Now that you’ve pointed it out, I can’t unsee it.”


	2. Not Really My Area

Another quiet, domestic night at Baker Street. Sherlock hunched over his laptop at the desk. John watching a Bond movie while stretched out on the sofa.

“Hey, watch the sentence fragments, will you? It’s distracting.” John muttered as he settled more comfortably into the sofa cushions.

“Yes, if you could perhaps struggle to the end of a proper sentence, I would appreciate the effort.” Sherlock mumbled without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. “I did not mumble. I spoke clearly at a low volume.”

“Hmmm? Didn’t catch that. You were mumbling,” John mumbled, his cheek crushed into his Union Jack pillow.

“I was talking to the author, not to you.”

John answered with a hum and adjusted his legs to get more comfortable.

“John, look at this. On this Archive of Our Own website, there are 4,134 stories where I’m in a romantic relationship with Molly. And 1,002 where I’m written as involved with Irene Adler.” Sherlock’s voice displayed his dismay.

“You haven’t found the ones where you’re having a three way with both of them yet, have you?” John smirked.

“What! Both of them!” Sherlock tapped his keyboard furiously. “And look, 407 stories pair me with Mary Morstan.”

“Sherlock, promise me you won’t look for the three ways between you, Mary and me.” John grinned into the pillow as he spoke.

Sherlock made an incoherent, strangled-offended-alarmed sound in reply. His voice rose an octave in distress. “But I told you I’m gay the first time we shared a meal. At Angelo’s, remember?” 

“You said girlfriends weren’t your area. Then you said you didn’t have a boyfriend. That was pretty ambiguous, Sherlock.” 

“I don’t remember you sitting down and declaring ‘By the way, Sherlock, I’m straight.’ Why should I have to state it explicitly that I’m gay? Why does our hetero-focused society expect such a declaration in order to consider a character gay? It’s tiring, really. Why can’t it be considered normal for a man who happens to be gay to be the featured character in a series?” Sherlock rose and began to pace in front of the coffee table.

John held up a hand to make a point. “We’re co-featured characters, by the way. I do believe I have as many lines as you do if you count across all episodes. And, Sherlock, we live in a heteronormative world. People are generally considered straight by most people until stated otherwise. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

Sherlock spun to face John, who was still laying on the sofa. “I do believe the show is still called ‘Sherlock,’ not ‘Sherlock and John,’ thus I am the featured character. And the number of spoken lines in a script does not equal star status. But back to the subject, I’ve done everything but wear a rainbow flag around my shoulders. Most of the fans know that, except the ones who like to write about me having liaisons with Irene Adler or Molly. If the fans picked it up, why didn’t you? We lived together for two series, for god’s sake.”

“I don’t know, I guess I thought the script writers were just weaving in a running joke. ‘Ha ha, let’s be ambiguous about Sherlock’s sexuality, won’t the audience love that?’ and all.” John waved his hand in the air as he spoke.

Sherlock returned to pacing. “Really, John, give the show runners more credit. One of them is married to another man and speaks up for LBGTQ rights on a regular basis. Do you really think he’d condone queerbaiting in a show so closely associated with his name?” Sherlock crossed his arms. “And turn off the telly. It’s distracting.”

John sat up and thumbed the OFF button on the television remote. “I didn’t say queerbaiting, now did I? I don’t think the scriptwriters intended that. More like just a subtle ‘wink-wink-nudge-nudge’ running joke about never explicitly stating your orientation.”

“Well you’ve never explicitly stated your sexual orientation either, John.” Sherlock sounded a little put-out. He stopped pacing and crossed his arms over his chest.

John sat forward, displaying his agitation. “I’ve nearly shouted it from the rooftops! I’ve told anyone who bothers to listen that I’m not gay. Christ sake, I’m married to a woman!”

“Yes, you have stated repeatedly that you’re ‘not gay.’ Rather ambiguous, that.” It was Sherlock’s turn to smirk.

“Just how is ‘I’m not gay’ ambiguous?”

“You never said you’re straight. There are other sexual orientations than gay and straight, you know. Fanfic writers have interpreted your ‘I’m not gay’ to leave room for your character being closeted bisexual, pansexual, and even ‘straight with an asterisk.’”

“Straight with an asterisk? What the hell does that mean?” John’s face flushed.

“You’re straight, but you make an exception for me. I guess that makes me the asterisk. Some authors even call it ‘Holmes-sexual.’” Sherlock curled both lips between his teeth, trying hard not to laugh.

John buried his face in his hand and groaned. “Holmes-sexual. Now I’ve heard everything.”

“Oh, I don’t think you have, John. Do you know there are authors who also ship you with Major Sholto?” Sherlock’s lip curled at the thought.

“Ship me with James? Ship us where?”

“Ship is short for ‘relationship.’ According to my research, it’s a common term in fan communities to designate characters that fans think of as being in a relationship together. Like you and me, or me and Molly, some fans like to ship you with your former CO.”

John scrubbed furiously at his face with both hands. “Oh. My. God. Do you know how much trouble we would have been in? James could have been court martialed if we’d had any type of intimate relationship. It’s strictly forbidden for an officer to fraternize with anyone under his command. A CO could get the brig for it.” He wrung both hands together. “And stop putting periods after my every word, for gods sake!”

Sherlock’s voice softened, displaying a hint of sympathy. “But that wouldn’t have kept him from having feelings for you, John. Maybe not acting on them, but feeling them nonetheless. Did you see his expression at your wedding? It was clear that he held deep affection for you.”

“Deep affection, I’ll give you that. I also have a deep respect for him. That doesn’t mean we were lovers.” John seemed shaken at the thought.

Sherlock dropped into his chair and tented his fingers under his chin. “John, let’s save discussing James for a later chapter. Let’s get back to your ambiguous sexuality. You’ve stated repeatedly that you’re not gay.”

“Yes, yes I have.” John nodded.

“But you’ve never stated that you are straight.” Sherlock gave John a side-eyed look.

“No, I haven’t.”

“So…”

“Yes.”

Sherlock wrinkled the bridge of his nose, confused. “Yes what?”

“Yes, I’m agreeing that I’ve never explicitly stated my sexual orientation. Just as you’ve never.” John had on his stern ‘Captain Watson’ face.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Christ, I’m going to fix myself a drink if we’re going to continue this conversation.”


	3. I don’t have a drinking problem. I drink, I get drunk, I fall down - no problem

“Speaking of drinks, why do authors focus on how much I drink? You’re shown drinking onscreen, too. You had a stout at the Crossed Keys, and a Scotch in front of the fireplace. I’d think fans would be more alarmed by your use of alcohol, considering your history of drug abuse. Alcohol lowers inhibitions, makes it easier to make poor choices and slip back into using.” John had now switched to his ‘Dr. Watson’ voice.

“The show runners have stated in interviews that your drinking is a theme running through the show. Remember _Many Happy Returns_? You were drinking in the middle of the afternoon. Alone. Hard liquor, not just a beer. I can understand why fans could extrapolate an alcohol problem.” Sherlock gave John a concerned look.

John groaned and rubbed his face. “Now _I_ need a drink if we’re going to continue this conversation.”

“Really, John? ‘Need’ a drink is an unhealthy way to put it. You know how writers tend to give you an alcoholic family. Needing a drink, as opposed to wanting a drink, is a sure sign of alcoholism.” 

John sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Christ, Sherlock, other than my sister, my family hasn’t even been mentioned in the show. _I_ don’t even know my family background, apart from the fact that I never got along with my sister and that she’s divorced, and I went to her place for Christmas once when she was off the sauce, but she wasn’t really dry.”

“Good point. I don’t really have any concerns about your alcohol consumption.” Sherlock tapped a few keys on his laptop. “It seems in line with the norm for a British male of middle age according to what I’m finding online.” 

“And what’s with the whiskey, Scotch or whatever other amber-colored liquor I drink neat? Can’t I ever have something else to drink or at least an ice cube or two? It gets old after a while. I’d love to have a gin and tonic, or even a margarita every now and then. Or a martini. I’m dying to try an appletini. Please, someone, won’t you write me drinking an appletini just once?” John held up his hands in supplication.

“You had a pint at Grimpon Village. I distinctly remember you drinking a lager.” Sherlock tapped his lower lip with his forefingers, deep in thought.

John huffed. “Oi! I didn’t huff! That was just a hard sigh! Anyway, yes, I had a pint of amber lager at the Crossed Keys. It was nice. Refreshing.”

“And weren’t you drinking beer out of a bottle at the Christmas party? The one where I humiliated Molly then kissed her cheek in apology, which set off a wave of fans writing all kinds of sexual situations between she and I?” Sherlock closed his laptop and gave John his full attention.

John laughed aloud. “You and Molly. Good one, that. But yes, I did have a beer. It was in a green bottle. Maybe a Heineken? Seems the manufacturer didn’t pay for a product placement so I never got a good look at the label. But it was light, so it must have been a Heineken.”

“Wait, John. Lager or beer? Americans call anything in a bottle fermented with hops ‘beer.’ But don’t we English usually more precise terms? Lager, stout?” Sherlock wrinkled his brow in confusion.

“There’s an even bigger issue, Sherlock. Why do we use so many American words when we live in London? Words come out of my mouth that I’ve never even heard before, like ‘soda.’ What the hell?” John sounded tetchy once again. “Oi! I’m not tetchy! I’m just a little annoyed, that’s all.”

“It appears there are as many Americans writing fanfiction about us as there are British fans. I’m not able to get actual data but from a quick read on Archive Of Our Own, I can see as many American terms used as British terms. Face it, John, a plane ticket from any point in America to London is over a thousand US dollars. Not many authors are going to fly here to just wander around and gather slang and location settings for their stories. It’s not like they’re getting paid to write.” Sherlock sounded sympathetic.

John held up a hand again. “Not getting paid! Then do they do it? Writing about us?” 

“They do it out of their love for us as characters. Many of them grew up reading Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories about us and watching the Basil Rathbone movies. We’re icons in popular culture, John.”

John snorted. “Icons.”

Sherlock leaned back and stretched his legs out in front of him. “Fans also write stories to help work out their own issues, like childhood abuse or rape. It’s therapeutic for them to put their issues on us, as fictional characters. It can help them get insights they wouldn’t find other ways.” 

John went to the refrigerator and grabbed two bottles of lager. He rummaged in a drawer for a bottle opener then brought all of it through to the living room. He opened a bottle and handed it to Sherlock, then opened the other for himself and sat it on the table beside his chair. “But back to the subject. Why do our fans think I’m a drunk?”

“I don’t know. Most likely it’s the scene of you drinking alone. Maybe it’s the showrunners’ comments in interviews. Maybe it’s the writers needing to work out issues from their own childhood. They can’t very well make me a drunk, can they? I’m already a junkie. That’s canon.” Sherlock leaned his head on the back of his chair and groaned.

John sounded confused. “Cannon? What does heavy artillery have to do with the show or your drug use?” 

Sherlock rolled his head back and forth on the chair back and replied without opening his eyes. “Canon, John, one ‘N.’ As in, an accepted principle. I was explicitly high in the drug den, remember? Then I wrenched my brother's arm in a drug-fueled rage.”

John stood from the sofa and crossed to his chair so he could face Sherlock directly. “Some fans also interpret it that you were high after the scene at Battersea Station with Irene Adler.”

Sherlock opened one eye and looked at John. “They do?”

John nodded. “Yes, they do. Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“High. On drugs. Using.”

Sherlock lifted his head and opened both eyes to regard John. “What do you think?”

“I have no idea. That was back in Series Two. Years ago. And I didn't get home until after you'd thrown the CIA agent out of the window. You could have sobered up by then." John wasn’t going to let it drop. "Were you?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head drop back to the chair back. “Mmmmm.” 

“That’s not an answer, Sherlock.” John tried his Captain Watson voice again.

“You’re right. It’s not.” Sherlock sounded bored.

“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

“Mmmm.” 

John decided to let it drop. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.


End file.
